Get Your Epitaph Right
by timenspace
Summary: It's been three years after the events of "Reichenbach Fall". They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first. Possibly S/J. Rating changed to T for mentions of drug use.
1. Empty House

**Title:** Get Your Epitaph Right  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, John, Mycroft. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.  
><strong>Rating: K+ <strong>for now, swearing and some blood  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first.

**A/N: Saw some spoiler pictures for Series 3. Fic rabbit bit me.  
><strong>

**Disclaimer: I can't even claim ownership to the dialogue this time. **

It had now been several months since the Event. It was easier attatching an unemotional name to it than constantly picturing Sherlock's face smashed on the pavement, his body twisted unnaturally on the gurney. John knew he couldn't afford 221B by himself - even though he did not want to leave. He started the process of packing. He wrapped Sherlock's instruments - first in tissue paper, then in old newsprint. Then gently in a packing box.

Nobody else would want them.

He placed the clippings in a folder, tucking them into the side of the box.

He wasn't sure about the books, and when he limped downstairs and asked Mrs. Hudson about them she told him to "not worry about them, dear."

He had all of his things packed within a day - but he knew it would take an extra two to pack Sherlock's things, mainly because John would have to sit down. His hand was shaking again, and he felt shaky. Mrs. Hudson once came upstairs and offered to help but he shook his head insistantly.

He would sit there for hours in the half-packed apartment. Glaring at Sherlock's desk.

The grief he had felt at Sherlock's grave a few days before had been replaced by rage. "You're dead, you stupid git. And yes, you're a complete idiot. You've left me without a life to even go back to."

He shook his finger at the chair as though Sherlock was there, listening - that bored look on his face, the roll of the eyes. The non-committal expression. John cursed.

"Sorry I have to leave this old place. Seems all I have left of you."

"Nobody said you had to leave."

John glared up to see Mycroft - with his ivory cane and expensive suit. He didn't want to see Sherlock's brother right now, in fact he didn't want to see or talk to anyone in particular.

It must have showed on his expression, because Mycroft said, "I know you don't want to talk to anyone, John. But I am sorry that I have not been up here to see you earlier."

"Why should I accept anything from you? Isn't there something you want from me?" He didn't want to be tied to the corruption. Sherlock had been, because you cannot choose your family, but after the first encounter, John hadn't seen or heard from Mycroft without Sherlock bearing his "favors".

Mycroft sighed, leaning on his cane. He seemed to be carefully choosing what he said, and exactly how he said it. "I'd like my brother back," the words seemed quieter than he meant them to be, he looked down at his cane briefly - unlike John, Mycroft didn't particularly need it - he just used the damned thing to indicate his wealthy status.

He feigned a smile and John was surprised to see Sherlock's wealthy brother actually seem sad. "It's the least I can do - if you don't want to stay here, I understand. I can take care of another apartment if you like." He looked at John's cane, seemingly remembering that first night. "But I don't know that it would be as easy a trek to hospital."

John seemed incapable of speaking. Yes, this old place haunted him - but he didn't want to leave. All their memories were here, and it seemed as though if he left he would really have to accept that Sherlock was dead. If he stayed, he could pretend for awhile.

Mycroft nodded, again briefly smiling - though it seemed half-hearted. He looked around the place. "I'm sorry you already packed," he said turning to leave. "My brother may have been many things - but a fraud he was the furthest from." He then seemed to stalk out of the room, as though he were going to say something else but chose not to.

John sat back in his chair, sulking. "Can't get rid of you can I?" He glared at Sherlock's chair and started unpacking the box nearest his own. The magazines that went in the rack on the opposite side of the fireplace. "You don't want me to mourn you? Fine. I can do that. I'll just hate you for leaving instead."

He hated the silence of the room. Despite the shakiness, he'd be asking for more hours at the hospital. He couldn't bear to leave, nor could he bear to stay.

He noticed there was a small spot on the rug from where Mycroft had been standing. Had the mogul actually shed one tear on his brother's rug? Sherlock would know, but John didn't care enough to get out the chemical set to find out.

Three years passed. Three long, boring years.

He was still engaged to Mary, and she came over to the apartment every afternoon, waiting for him to get home from work. But they hadn't quite made the final steps towards marriage.

He was carrying himself back to the flat, taking careful strides, pacing himself. It seemed like a longer walk than it should. Since the night Mycroft had "taken care of" the apartment there had been no request for favors, and since it had been three years - John was quite sure there wouldn't be any. For that, he was grateful. He didn't post on his blog anymore, he refused therapy even though the girl called almost every week, leaving a message on his mobile as a reminder to make a appointment. He was in a particularly bad mood today. Swearing that if anyone crossed him on the wrong side of the street he would surely give them a damned good bloody nose.

Someone was standing outside 221B - a visitor for Mrs. Hudson perhaps? She never got visitors. John was immediatly suspicious. As he limped closer, the figure looked resoundingly familar. This only made his sullen mood worse. He continued, acted as though the figure wasn't even standing there and took out his key.

"John?"

He turned slowly, his leg throbbing again - Mary would insist that he take a long soak and then a nap. He was bored - something _should _happen to him, even though nothing ever did.

But he knew that voice. He glared fiercely at his former partner.

"You're a ghost. Now sod off and go haunt someone else. I'm sure your brother would have quite a field day with that."

"John, I'm not dead."

Those four word woke up a rage that John had thought he had buried and forgotten. He dropped the cane and swung a punch at the taller figure, letting out a cry of anger.

"You deserted me! The way I was trained you don't desert your comrades. I was angry that you were dead, but this is far worse. I can't believe that when you said we were friends that I was enough of a stupid git to believe you."

"Yes, I know it was painful for you but it had to be done or -" John punched him again, this time catching Sherlock's nose.

"What about Mycroft's network?" John demanded. "Are you planning that we'll die together this time, Sherlock? I have a fiancee - I can't just desert her too."

"I have everything I need to clear my name, we can go back to wor-" Sherlock's reply was cut off by John catching him in the jaw with his fist.

"Oh, yeah - why don't we just go back to the way things were, Sherlock? Pretend you weren't gone? Pretend I didn't miss you for three fucking years!"

"You are all I thought of the whole time I was away..." John punched him in the nose again.

"You think that makes me feel better?" He didn't want Sherlock to see the tears that were threatening to come again. John wanted Sherlock to know, to feel what it was like to think your best friend was dead.

"John can you not keep hitting me, please. I am just -" Sherlock tried to grasp hold of John's hands before another punch.

"Go. Away," John slipped away, and unlocked the flat. "If you need a place to stay find some other gullible git, because you surely aren't welcome here." He slammed the door in Sherlock's face.

If John had looked through the peephole he might have regretted his actions, but he was a bit preoccupied with nursing his hand, and cursing that he'd left his cane in the street. And trying not to cry.

He kicked at the stair in frustration. Sherlock obviously didn't trust him because he would have told him about this plan in the first place. There was no sense in pretending they were friends anymore.

For all John knew, it was a stupid hallucination. Better to think of it that way. Better not to hope that Sherlock was alive because that was almost too painful to think about.


	2. Brother Bother

**Chapter Title: **Brother Bother  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, Mycroft  
><strong>Rating: <strong>K+  
><strong>Summary: <strong>After leaving 221B, there is only one place Sherlock can go. It gives him the unfortuate time to actually think. The story title is from a lyric by Snow Patrol.

In this chapter you might say Sherlock seems a little out of character. Take into consideration he's been to Istanbul and God-knows-where else, and he's missed his friend. That friend just punched him and slammed the door in his face; thinks Sherlock betrayed him to a degree. You can't just shrug and walk away. High-functioning sociopath or not.

**A/N: **I think in the spoilers, it indicates Sherlock tells Mycroft he was mugged, but I figured Mycroft would already know the truth. He seems to have eyes everywhere anyway. What I'm shooting for is to emulate what I think they will put in the series. Minus some language. :P

**Disclaimer: **Mofftiss owns, and Queen Beeb. Not me.

Sherlock dabbed at his bloody nose, looked up at 221B a little sadly, stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked up at the doorknocker with a final air, and walked off down the road. He wandered into the wealthier part of London. He didn't particularly feel like hailing a cab. He could tell Mycroft he was mugged but he didn't think his brother would believe that easily.

He hadn't been here - to the old house - in a long time. Hadn't been this desperate. He couldn't go to a hotel, although he knew the Network was gone, he didn't quite feel like explaining to passerby his distinct face.  
>He knocked on the door. No answer.<p>

Mycroft's car was outside so surely he was home. His brother knew he was alive, had known for a year and a half before the Network was completely irradicated. Mycroft was just being his usual self, trying to pay Sherlock back for the times he had phoned and Sherlock hadn't answered.

"Have it your way!" he shouted to the door.

He took out his mobile and Mycroft picked up almost immediatly. "Need a favor again?"

"Yes." He paused, then said in a rush. "Mycroft, can I stay here tonight?"

The butler opened the door, as though he'd simply been waiting for a signal. "He's in the parlor, do you care for some refreshment?"

"Yes, please." Sherlock allowed the old man to take his coat and be escorted to where Mycroft was sitting in his chair that not surprisingly resembled a throne.

"John didn't react well to your resurrection?" Mycroft smiled that annoying little smile.

Sherlock dabbed at his sore nose again. "Yes, I think his emotional connection to my death I severly misunderestimated," he said.

'I think if you would have told anyone your plan, you would have told him first," Mycroft said.

"I gathered that, thank you." Sherlock said, taking a glass of water that he sniffed and dipped one finger in and smelled that too before drinking. "But I couldn't do that. Moriarty's plan included him. With me dead, there was no one to operate the cases - so John's connection wasn't of interest anymore. His lack of knowledge saved his life."

"Perhaps he should be informed of that then."

Sherlock let out a strangled laugh. "Can't very well inform him without being prepared for a boxing match."

Mycroft hit a button on his desk, and someone walked in, wheeling a cart with various instruments. "Aw, come on," Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He took one cotton ball, tore it carefully in half, twisting the cotton and placed it in his nose, trying to disguise his wince. "All better."

Mycroft nodded to the doctor and the man left.

"So he just sits around all day waiting for you to push that button? How boring." Sherlock said.

"Don't get off the subject. John. How are you going to deal with him?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I can go back to consulting without him."

Mycroft shook his head, still with that annoying smile on his face. "You know very well you don't want admit you don't want to. Let him absorb that you're alive for awhile and maybe he'll come round."

"He'll probably send a text," Sherlock said, taking out his mobile and slamming it against his palm, as though trying to force a text out of it.

Mycroft turned back to his desk. "If you want dinner it's at 5." He seemed to make it clear for Sherlock to find his quarters. "You can have your room back if you like."

Sherlock let the parlor without a word, his brother and himself weren't one for graces. He remembered why he had left this house. It was so roomy it was suffocating. Same routine every day - of course it had always been that way, but for Sherlock he took adventure over the sake of routine. He might be a little late to dinner. Just to watch Mycroft twitch a little. Show him he wasn't completely in control. He wandered into his old room. Mycroft didn't seem to have changed anything. Same stack of books. Same bedspread. Same wallpaper in the adjoining bathroom, though the mirror and curtain were different.

This was not quite how he had pictured tonight. Even though he deserved John's reaction. He should have expected him to react that way, and yes he had expected some rage - but everyone else had just seemed shocked and relieved.

John wasn't everyone else. Clearly. He unbuttoned the shirt, touching the bruises with interest. As far as he knew, it didn't seem that John had broken anything. Though he would probably have a rather nasty black eye and swollen lip in the morning.

He touched his eye and winced. If Mycroft thought he was uncomfortable he would call that man with his instruments again - and Sherlock was quite used to doing things himself. The clock in the hall chimed. Four. An hour to play bored houseguest. At least he had time to think.

He had severely underestimated John's rage. He'd thought from seeing John at the graveyard that the soldier would be upset, but he had forgotten John's code of loyalty. The loyalty he'd learned from his unit in the war. The same loyalty he'd applied to Sherlock.

In fact he would probably consider Sherlock more the hero of actually dying so he could live in the first place, then Sherlock faking that death and solving the case.

He'd made a mistake, even if he wouldn't admit it. John was clearly affected by his death. Details that hadn't been there when he left did not go unnoticed. The darker jumper, the darker coat. The skittish appearance, even though he limped - that too, was back. The dark circles under John's eyes. The angles in his face sharper - as though he wasn't eating properly. Was Mary feeding him like she should?

They'd been engaged when he left - he'd thought by now they'd been married.  
>"<em>You'll be the Best Man, Sherlock." <em>He'd said with a smile. One of the rare occasions John had actually _told _him what to do.

He couldn't just sit here on the corner of his bed and reflect. He had to tell John what he meant to tell him. Before the bastard cut him off and started swinging.

Though he deserved that. In John's code, and even by his own. He should have known he could trust John, even though he was only trying to protect him.


	3. Deserves to Know

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, Mycroft  
><strong>Rating: K+<br>****Summary: **"He won't care about where I've been. He'll want to know why I left. He blames himself. And because I left, that leaving is betrayal. Betrayal that he is determined I will pay for in some regard. He won't take platitudes or excuses. He is a soldier, Mycroft. He deserves a proper explanation."

**A/N: Thank you for all the alerts and to Chessie13 and thatperfume for reviewing :D This next chapter is to you two wonderful people. There is so much Sherlock fic right now it would take me a good year to read them all.  
><strong>

Sherlock sat in the chair, his elbows on the arm rests, his fingertips tapping together in a rhythem symbiotic with the clock on the wall, though he didn't hear the ticking, and he wasn't watching the time. He was thinking. Calculating.

How would he tell John next? He couldn't very well stay here - he would most likely not sleep.

As though he slept in Baker Street but at least there he was free to play his violin at all hours. Here he didn't even have the violin.

He couldn't stop John in the street again. The soldier was too rattled for that. Besides now he'd be looking over his shoulder, probably would carry a pistol if he felt the need to.

He was lucky John hadn't pulled his gun and shot him. Not to kill him, of course. John missed him too much to want him dead. John was teaching a lesson that Sherlock just couldn't go off and pretend to be dead without consequences.

He knew that - he knew John wouldn't react well to his return at first. Might claim denial, might tell him to prove he wasn't a ghost. He knew the list of possibilities. But the one where John punched him and told him to sod off wasn't very high on the list.

The clock chimed five.

Sherlock waited three minutes, then got up out of the chair he was sitting in. Then flicked the bathroom light on. He pretended to be preening - but he was really looking at the still-pink saber scar on his right shoulder. From Istanbul of course.

Someday John would like to hear that story. In fact, if he was completely honest - he could have dodged quicker if he wanted.

He heard a knock on the door as he turned the water on. He opened the door to another of the servants, different than the butler. "Yes?" He tried not to seem testy even though he knew that came across anyway.

"Your brother wishes to tell you that dinner is served."

Sherlock turned off the water and dried his hands on a handtowel that seemed far to fluffy for a spare, unused bedroom. "Well, let's go then, shall we?"

He smiled, but it wasn't real. He was just showing off, as usual.

"I'm not even going to ask why you're late. Seems like a boring and pointless conversation," Mycroft stated when Sherlock entered the dining hall.

Why his brother ate in this grand room by himself - or perhaps with his assistant sometimes, Sherlock knew why - but he didn't quite understand the logical sense of it.

A waste of dishes, a waste of food - in fact just a waste of space.

Sherlock did not sit across the table. In fact, he was seated a few paces away from Mycroft. If they brought out the rest of the chairs from the storage in the garden, he would be about three chairs away. A comfortable distance.

"Have you decided about John?"

"I'll have to wait to see him. Perhaps a week?" Sherlock paused for effect. "I don't plan on being here in your castle the whole time."

"Well, that's a nice gesture for you."

Sherlock smiled tightly. "I don't want to be dirtying rooms the servants clean once a week anyway."

"You know it's not a problem. But John. What about it? How will he react?"

"I'm a detective, Mycroft. Not a psychic. He might react well. He might not."

"He certainly didn't react well today."

"No. That's because he was in the street. I couldn't tell him to sit down and listen."

Of course he hadn't done that in the first place because he expected John to shoot him if he deigned to enter their flat. But he didn't tell Mycroft that. His brother would simply rub in the mistake. They were far too similiar to like each other, and yet so different they couldn't properly talk.

Mycroft liked his routines, his wealth, and his influence.

Sherlock liked his adventures, haphazard way of handling things, of exercising his mind in the scientific field, instead of the mathematical or political one.

Of course neither particularly seemed to care what the other's choices were.  
>Though Sherlock wanted nothing to do with Mycroft's political involvement. In his mind, the best term was "corruption" - and this perhaps was the explanation of the coldness between them.<p>

"You could just tell him you were taken captive after you faked your death," Mycroft was saying, amused.

Of course that wouldn't be a lie, but that didn't explain why he was gone for three years. "No, I am not doing that to John. Amusing that you would be the one saying that, one would think that you of all people would remember his loyalty. He deserves to know the truth." _Even if I don't want to tell him. It has to be done, just as this "death" had to be done in the first place._

Sherlock pushed away what little he had put on his plate. He wasn't particularly hungry at this time anyway.

"You're not going to go there now are you?" Mycroft was a little too eager to offer his bodyguard.

"No, of course not. It's too soon. I might go to though. This house is too spacious for me to think."

"Of course. Raymone will take you."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't be bothered with an escort. I could still be recognized."

Mycroft nodded, but Sherlock knew there would still be people watching that he would have to shake. Of course the plan was to go into the Homeless Network and perhaps get their assistance, with a disguise. Mycroft would be having him followed anyway, though the act of "big brother" he found annoying.

Sherlock turned to leave. He rarely said goodbye or told anyone where he might be off too. Besides, Mycroft would know within the hour anyway. There was no point to telling the truth or lying.

"Sherlock," his brother's tone indicated he had something important to add to the conversation, so Sherlock turned back before reaching the door, a bored expression on his face. "What if he can't forgive you?"

He hadn't really thought of that option but he had a ready answer for it. "I'll continue with my consulting. Perhaps go somewhere else. I don't need him to solve these crimes." The last was a blatent lie, but Mycroft didn't need to know that.

"Come see me if you need someone to think out loud to," the offer seemed uncharacteristic. Likely Mycroft wanted both a favor and to feel he was back in his brother's non-existant graces.

"I'll be sure to call then." He turned to open the door of the dining hall. "Til then, Mycroft. Goodnight."

The Homeless Network kept him occupied for a couple of days - he got them what they needed - and they provided a disguise.

Of course it wasn't exactly pleasent but that was the point. He watched John at a distance. John limping to work with his cane, still refusing to take a cab. John limping back to 221B - Mycroft had clearly had a hand in him keeping the flat.

Once John took the cab; Sherlock could see that his hand holding the cane was shaky - both from the fact he had thrown himself into his work that day, and the fact that he wasn't properly eating. That only seemed to happen when Mary couldn't be over during the afternoon. He clearly didn't make himself dinner. Probably just drank a cuppa, and sat in the flat. His motions indicated he clearly wasn't getting much sleep. Likely depressed, possibly suicidal.

This needed to be done with as soon as possible. It was not only because Sherlock wanted to get back to his consulting. It was the strange, unfamiliar feeling of driving guilt.

John not only had to know. He _deserved_ to know.


	4. Return To Me

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right

**Characters/Pairing: **John, Sherlock

**Rating: K+ **serious stuff

**Summary: **He wanted nothing to do with talking to or punching a ghost. He wanted to be left alone.

**A/N: Thank you to all the people who favourited and added this to your alerts. It might not be a review, but it indicates interest :) Thank you to I'mNotCrazyTheWorldIs, spinner12, and enchantednightingale for your reviews. Also to marble eyes for the proofreading points. They are most treasured. It all happens in my head, just not in chronological order or in a way you all would understand. **

John pushed the key in, unlocking the door to 221B. Mary had told him she was chaperoning the school dance that afternoon, and would not be able to call on him, as usual.

She must have told Mrs. Hudson as well because the post wasn't on the floor like it usually was when he got in. Mary usually picked it up for him.

John realized as he wearily closed the door there were probably only a few things in the house that were edible for a dinner. He should have remembered to get takeaway - but he'd been so exhausted after the clinic, he was only anxious to get home. It was only just as he turned the corner that he'd remembered Mary wouldn't be there. He turned to make his way up the seventeen stairs. Slowly. His hand still shook on the railing from him forcing them to be steady earlier. There had been a patient that needed twenty-three stitches, and he'd even had to have the nurse do the last ten. He tossed his keys on the counter, where sure enough was the post. Including _The Daily Mail. _He looked at the top fold and started the coffee pot.

Ordinary news. Mundane. Celebrities. The Weather. But his mind wasn't really on what he was reading. He was absorbed in other thoughts. He must have slugged a ghost - or at least a torturous doppelganger. Maybe some lout who'd read the blog. Sherlock was dead. He tried wresting the image of him lying on the gurney, looking like a broken puppet - but he was a broken puppet. A broken puppet of Moriarty's.  
>What possesed someone like Sherlock to recant. Moriarity must have threatened something dreadful.<p>

John was no idiot. Sherlock had been hiding something - he'd always been concerned for Mrs. Hudson. He might not have shown it, but he'd at least said hello to her when she had been downstairs. John was tired of feeling guilty about things that weren't his fault - he didn't even want to talk to the wretched man. Besides, Sherlock was dead.

The dead don't speak. Damn it all, he was _not _going to cry again. He wished that Mary hadn't taken up on the chaperoning. Then he wouldn't be alone with his terrible thoughts at the moment. He hadn't told Mary what was wrong, as many times as she had asked. That he'd seen Sherlock again. She'd probably think he needed to go in hospital for a check, but John wanted nothing to do with such things. He told her he'd just had a horrible flashback, and it was nothing. Happened every year, didn't it?

He watched the coffee brew. Watched the silent teakettle out of the corner of his eye. He always heard the whistling - that or the plucking of the violin - in his dreams. He'd gotten so used to hearing it, waking up from a nightmare to silence was still very strange. Even after three years.

But now that teakettle sat empty. John did like his tea, but he seemed to have it more rarely now. He had become partial to Columbian in Afghanistan - the local's tea was quite strong and bitter. The pot finished its cycle and he poured himself a mug, then carrying the post under one arm, limped into the living room. He was just about to set his cup on its coaster and sit and read the rest of_ The Mail_ before he considered ordering takeaway, when he heard a voice. An all-too-familiar velvet tone. The last person he wanted to talk to right now.

"Hello, John." He knew Sherlock was sitting in his chair, facing the window. His fingertips pressed together in contemplation - an open notebook and a fountain pen in his lap. Scribbled notes - things crossed out. Things added.

John didn't want any part of it. The post had dropped from under his arm. He carefully set his cup where it belonged, least he throw the hot liquid at Sherlock and risk burning himself. _"And break a perfectly good cup?" _John looked out at Baker Street below, but he did not see the cars or the people rushing about on their mobiles. He only saw Sherlock, broken on the gurney. Blood pooling into the gutter. What he always seemed to see whenever he closed his eyes. "I don't want to talk to you. Get out of my apartment."

He expected a justification. A defense, that it was his apartment too. But Sherlock didn't say such things. "Not until you hear what I have to say. Then if you still want me to go -"

John cut him off, turning around slowly because of the cane. "Alright. But you're going to answer _my _questions first."

"Very well," Sherlock gave a single nod, his fingertips still pressed together. He knew what John was going to ask. He knew John wanted answers before excuses. And he had a right to feel in such a way. This was really, the only way Sherlock could possibly hope to piece things back together. It was a strange feeling to want to - normally he didn't waste emotion on such things.

"Where have you been?" John asked, his tone angry - hostile - he paced even with the cane, trying to fight the energy that wanted to be channeled towards hitting Sherlock again.

"Istanbul, Jerusalem, Cyprus. Libya. India." Sherlock sighed. "And wherever else you might imagine." John didn't know about the saber scar that was still pink - dangerously close to his jugular - but he would tell that story later.

"So you faked your own death for a bloody vacation? God, Sherlock if you wanted to get away from me that badly you could've -"

"I did it to save you, John!" Sherlock's voice rose in a rare tempo of desperation. "All of you were in danger, even Mycroft's organization had been infiltrated. Unless I said it was all a lie, that Moriarty was made up, the henchmen knew to implement the orders." _I'm sorry, but unless I died for you, this wouldn't have worked. _The words wanted to come. But he didn't say them.

John had actually sat down, apparently a little less angry than he had been, though his knuckles were white from clenching his cane, and his left hand was still trembling. Sherlock knew John was staring at his black eye and split lip. And the lack of a bandage across his throbbing nose. Also John's accurate deduction that he'd refused it. "Why couldn't you trust me?"

"It has nothing to do with trusting you, John." He meant to say more, but John spoke again.

"Yes it does. You don't trust me otherwise you would have _told _me about this plan. You know I wouldn't have told a soul if you asked me not to."

"I know that. If I could've told you, I would have. I couldn't tell you, so I didn't." Sherlock seemed unusually subdued. "I couldn't tell you because I had to eliminate all of Moriarty's network. Unless one of them was watching you. I knew you would follow me across the world even if I told you to stay here. We couldn't risk being seen together until I was sure they were eliminated."

"You know I can't just pretend as though you haven't been gone for three years." John hadn't forgiven him yet, but at least he understood.

"I think you did quite well while I was away. Despite everything."

"No, I have not been _fine, _Sherlock.I've been practically going mad. I wanted you to be my best man, and you were dead and -"

"You dusted my instruments." Sherlock said the four words with significance. This time their eyes locked for a moment.

John shrugged. "It didn't seem as though you would like them collecting dust - and I somehow couldn't donate them to the science laboratory."

Sherlock could have ribbed him for being so sentimental, but the discussion was too fragile for a joke like that just yet. "You've been coping, trying to pretend I'd come back. Even though you knew better."

"You didn't leave me with anything else." There was bitterness in his voice. The remark was wounding. But he deserved that, he should have known John would take the absence personally, even after understanding why. It would be sometime before the soldier-doctor properly forgave Sherlock. If he ever chose that Sherlock deserved his forgiveness.

Honestly, beyond eliminating the rest of Moriarty's associates, reintroducing himself to his friends, and going back to his work, he didn't consider the fine detail of events, of having to repair the shattered trust. He considered that it would obviously have to be done, but there was no specific method to do it.

"Do you want takeaway?" he asked, in a voice that didn't quite sound familiar to him.

"Oh, sod off," John said, berating him for changing the subject.

Sherlock sighed. "I didn't mean for you to get it - I'll call for it if you like. Just didn't want you to eat alone. But if you want to," he tucked his notebook and pen into the pocket of his coat, "I'll go."

"I'm not eating alone, you're not just going to get out of it that easily." John said firmly. "Don't you ever scare me like that again. Or I will punch you where I am more likely to kill you myself." John waved his cane at Sherlock, serious about what he was saying. But there was relief even in the threat.

"I don't plan on dying anytime soon, John." The reply was half-amused. He wanted to see John smile again. He hadn't smiled yet - and Sherlock almost expected it.

"Well that's good, then." The tension in the room seemed thick.

"Right. What kind of takeaway then? Surely you get the corner's all the time. I'll go across town if you like."

"You don't need to make it up to me like that."

"You clearly haven't eaten properly in several months." Sherlock was dialing with his mobile. "You've lost weight, your colour is off, and you clearly rarely sleep."

John shook his head at Sherlock, hearing him give out the order. He could tell at times Sherlock bit back telling off the person at the other end - for being an idiot.

He had missed the eccentric detective. But it would be sometime before they were back to where they were.

**A/N: If you have suggestions for a case they could work on in the next chapter, then please review and let me know. Must admit that I like writing them far too much :P **


	5. Takeaway

**Title:** Get Your Epitaph Right**  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, John, Mycroft. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.  
><strong>Rating: changed to T<strong>, Drug use discussed in this chapter.  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first.  
><strong>AN: **I'm on a writing rampage today :D From what I know, takeaway can be pickup or delivery. Sherlock opted for pickup as it is less Euros. Correct me if I'm wrong and I'll edit. My knowledge of British life is limited to telly.

**Thank you to The Beth midgit for reviewing! I like your idea and will probably use it for their case next chapter.**

**Enjoy! Thank you to anyone who drops reviews, they are like awesome cookies :D  
><strong>

Sherlock clicked the mobile shut, handing it to John with a tight smile.

"It will be ready for pickup in a half hour. 16 Pounds."

John shook his head and pulled out his money clip from his coat draped over his chair.

"No - there's no need for that. Unless you want a brew?"

This was uncharacteristic for Sherlock. He rarely bought anything - to the extent that John sometimes assumed he had no money whatsoever.

"No thanks, there's a case on the counter. Surely you noticed."

"Yes, of course, it was merely an offer." He'd seen it. A few of the empty cans in the bin, he was prying - seeing how far John was taking his drinking. If it might be cause for concern. "Alright," he smiled again. "I'll be off then. Back in three quarters of an hour?"

"Wait," John certainly did not want to be left in the apartment alone. "I'm coming too."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, back to his old self. "And hobble the whole way? You can pay the cab fare then."

"Fine," John shot back, realizing halfway down the stairs he probably wouldn't need the cane anyway. But he hailed a cab just in case. Sherlock was being his usual bored self and didn't step into the street for such courtesy. "Did you get bored during the time you were away?" John finally asked, though he knew the answer to that.

"There were times, yes." _All I could think about was you, _he thought, but didn't say it. "Did you get anything new to work on?"

"No, really been busy at the clinic though." John saw the place as the driver pulled up to it.

"I can see that." Of course he'd noticed. "You should probably see a specialist about your hands before you're discharged." He opened the door to the cab. "Only be a moment."

Five minutes later he walked out, carrying several bags. "Wasn't sure what you wanted, so there's several to choose from. Leftovers can be an experiment."

John made a humming sound, but didn't reply. They didn't talk until after they'd reached the flat, and John paid the cab.

Sherlock stuffed his one hand in his pocket while the other carried his takeaway. "You'll have to unlock the door."

"How'd you get in earlier?"

"Mrs. Hudson let me in. I told her I was your flatmate but you weren't in yet. Precisely five minutes before you arrived. Hence no phone call."

"Is there nothing you won't do?" John asked, flinging the door open, trying to adjust what he was carrying.

"There are some things, yes. But must we bore ourselves with them all?"

The takeaway was consumed in a somewhat peaceful silence. John was a little surprised that he could actually consume two rather than the one.

Sherlock seemed content with his. "So how's the blog going?" He was already tuning his violin, just making himself at home.

"I haven't posted since ... that last one. When you were dead." John still seemed to be trying to wrap his head around it. "Are you going to tell me where you've been? What you've really been doing?"

"I found all of Moriarty's Network. Only reason I could return."

"Did you have any adventures?"

"You know me, John. I got bored waiting. Of course I had adventures. A sultan thought I was trying to steal his daughter. I narrowly missed loosing my head."

He didn't tell John the whole story, as he seemed at the moment to think that typical. "Yes, that would be you. Always getting into some sort of trouble when you're bored."

He didn't answer. There wasn't reason to.

He didn't tell John how Mycroft had found out his existence. He'd done some experimenting in Austrailia. Frustrated with the slow progression of the case, he'd bought a combination of chemicals from one of his contacts. It was certainly better than being bored.

The coppers found him singing like a drunkard in an alley somewhere in Sydney. Or so he'd been told. They contacted Interpol, and due to Mycroft's contacts, his brother had found out of his existence. It wasn't exactly a setback, Mycroft's hands in everything served well with wrapping up the case. It might have taken five years instead of three. Not something he would admit easily.

But he didn't tell John that side of the story. John would only worry, and pity him. Sod it all, he refused anyone's platitudes or pity.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Was it dangerous?"

"The sultan? Oh no, Mycroft cleared that up nicely."

"So your brother knows about this."

"Unfortunatly, yes."

"He knew, and I didn't know. You clearly don't trust me."

"No, though inconvenient his network was somewhat necessary to the timely elimination of Moriarty's men." He continued plucking the strings. He'd missed the old instrument. "I trust you, John. With my life. I had to entrust your life so that you not know of my existence. How is this not clear?"

"I'm just trying to understand..." John's response was subdued.

Bloody hell, he'd messed up the response. So easy to just pretend it was nothing. That John's feelings meant nothing.

"I faked my death to save you, what about this is unclear."

"Nothing. I just wanted to hear you admit that you actually do care."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Sherlock," John's tone had switched to one of patience, as though he were explaining a simple problem. Sherlock didn't particularly like that tone. "You admit that you did something inconveinent for yourself to save someone else. I'm ... sorry I called you a machine. I think you are the most ..."

"Human person you've ever known, yes, yes." Sherlock didn't want to admit that John was right. The act had continue, because that was all he knew. This new vulnerable was unfamiliar, and not in the adventurous way that he remotely liked.

Sherlock picked up. "Lestrade. Yes, I'm alive." He answered two of John's unanswered questions. Pretty good for one night.


	6. Lestrade

**Title:** Get Your Epitaph Right  
><strong>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, John, Lestrade. Perhaps Molly if I can write her. Possibly Sherlock/John later. Friendship fic for now.  
><strong>Rating: T<strong>  
><strong>Summary: <strong>It's been three years. They can't just pick up where they were. They have to find the pieces first

**A/N: **I apologize if Lestrade seems off, he is somewhat difficult to write. Maybe because he has a rather simple role. Thanks to the Beth midgit for the idea or this might not have been written. I'm horrid at the mystery itself. I think you will see that next chapter.

**Queen Beeb and Mofftiss own, not me. Thankfully, not CBS either :D**

After that peculiar phone call, Lestrade had invited himself over, however thankfully did not have the "other two" as Sherlock referred to them with him.

That's where John's case of brew was going - Sherlock deduced that almost immediately.

"I'm sorry - I thought..."

"I warned you. He got in your head. Got in everyone's head apparently." He twanged the strings, still testing them, considering what they wanted to be played.

"You're not going to kill me then?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I don't kill people for allowing themselves to be controlled, Lestrade."

John looked down at his takeway. Sherlock saw the disbelief in his expression, silently thankful he'd kept quiet.

Lestrade wasn't quite sure how to take that remark other than it was probably the closest he was going to get to an acceptance of his apology.

"Been busy?"

He shrugged. "I suppose. Donovan's on absence for insubordination."

But Sherlock didn't want to hear about bullying little Donovan. He'd rather hear about what else they had.

"Alright, fine." He'd gotten up out his chair and was studying Baker Street. An old habit, just doing his own surveillance. The sills were clean. Mrs. Hudson must have dusted - he made a quick mental note to repay that somehow later. John would know about such things. "Do you have a case for me?"

"Sherlock you just -"

"I know, came back from the dead isn't that amazing? Pretty soon Baker Street will be a shrine and people will be carrying little images of Saint Bart's everywhere..." the remark was laced with sarcasm, religious targeting, and spite. He turned back from the window, smirking. "I mean I'm bored. I tend to be destructive while bored, Lestrade. Now, case?"

"It's stupid, you'll probably figure it out in five minutes."

"Tell me. I might be able to. Better than trying to make conversation, something you ... are not particularly good at." He almost included John in that statement, but something made him alter that remark.

He glanced at John, sitting in his chair, listening to it all and shaking his head, which rapidly jerked up and gave Sherlock an odd look that he'd not been included in making rubbish conversation.

"Well there's - here's the file." Lestrade had been carrying it on his person? Quite an interesting development.

Female. "There's no morgue photos, where's the body?"

Lestrade looked uncomfortable. "It's a private investigation."

"Ah, these are survelliance photos. No, unless there's a body I won't do it."

"Sherlock!" John had finally broken his silence. His tone was reproving.

"You know she's cheating on you. You just want evidence." As much as he had missed John, he was not going to be taking on a rather obvious case. "You're just playing in denial, Lestrade." He picked up the violin and played the first few notes of Beethoven's Fur Therese for emphasis. He waved his bow in the officer's direction.

"Go home and evaluate if the annulment is worth it, then go to work in the morning, get some file that hasn't been throughly contaminated by Donovan or Anderson. And I might look at it. Take the case of brew in the kitchen, I doubt that's worth hiding anymore and John prefers tea anyhow."

He then went right back to playing, leaving Lestrade and John in an awkward predicament.

John shrugged, an awkward smile on his face. "He hasn't changed."

Sherlock seemed a little oblivious to them, still playing a melody that only he seemed to know, though he heard what John was saying.

Lestrade shook his head, getting up to depart. "Are you sure about the brew?"

John nodded following him into the kitchen. "Sometimes if I didn't know better I would think he could read minds."

Sherlock heard the remark and smirked. John may not have exactly forgiven his absence yet, but at least he had accepted his return.

Things could return to normal sooner than -

"The bloody hell was that?" John was standing in front of him, looking a little perturbed.

"What?" He stopped playing to listen, but didn't lower the instrument.

"You don't know what's happened during the three years you've been gone. Anderson's wife finally shot him -"

"Good."

" - you might not be a machine, but you could at least be nice. Lestrade would have lost his job if he hadn't attempted to arrest you. He got demoted to being a officer for even being _associated _working with you. They limited his file access -"

"He should get his position back once we've caught the next one. I'll give him some credit." He said it off-handed.

"Good." John responded, beginning to clean up the takeaway mess. Sherlock continued playing - it sounded to John a bit less mournful than he remembered, although it might have just been the fact he'd missed the strange music in their flat. Then he realized what Sherlock had said. "Wait, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"What did you just say about Lestrade? About the next case?"

"You know what I said." Truthfully, the words had slipped from his tongue before considering them. He should have realized John would notice.

"Well, yes -"

"If he actually can get us a good case, I see no reason why he shouldn't get _something _for his trouble."

John was really wondering if Sherlock had lost his wits sometime in those three years, but he was suddenly overcome by exhaustion.

"I'm knackered. Goodnight, Sherlock."

He waited a moment as though expecting a reply. When there was none, he turned for his room.

"'Night, John." Maybe he just thought he heard Sherlock say it.


	7. Breakfast

**Title:** Get Your Epitaph Right  
><strong>Characters:<strong> Sherlock, John  
><strong>Rating:<strong> T  
><strong>Summary<strong>: Sherlock attempts to cook. Chaos ensues, and perhaps a new case.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I'm glad I did a little research for this. Otherwise John would be walking about in knickers instead of trousers. :P Google if you don't get it. And this chapter is a little fluffy. I hope not to the point that Sherlock is completely out of character.

querty: It was my understanding that both were used in the EU. If I'm wrong, sue me.  
>The Beth midgit: Here you are! At least part of the plot.<p>

John woke up to the darkness.

Had all of what he'd experienced been a torturous dream? Unlikely since he'd seen no images of Sherlock dead…

The screeching of the violin told what was the truth… that terrible sound that made him have to remember where he'd put the earplugs.

But he didn't fetch them. Not tonight.

The violin stopped abruptly. Then a crash that sounded like glass breaking. A soft curse.

Was Sherlock _trying_ to be quiet?

John threw his legs over the small mattress. There was no use trying to sleep now. Besides it was nearly daybreak. His usual time to rise, or more accurately, when he usually gave up on sleep. Started breakfast, texted Mary and headed to the clinic.

How was chaperoning last night?

He turned into the shower, which was quick - John had become used to those.

He selected a jumper and a pair of trousers, then walked downstairs to the main room. Sniffed the air, it smelled as though one of Sherlock's experiments had gone awry again. That might explain the cursing.

"Ah, blast it!" He cursed again, throwing the frying pan at the sink.

"What's going on?"

"You're out of the shower - oh, never mind." Military meant three-minutes was normal, ten was "a long shower". Sherlock should have remembered that.

"What happened?" John was curious. "Smells like burnt toast."

"That's because it's what that is!" Sherlock huffed, tossing the blackened mass into the bin, as though to fling it as far away from his person as possible.

"Did you delete toaster operation from the memory palace?" John was jesting, of course.

"Of course not!" Sherlock snapped. "Why don't you cook breakfast since you're so good at it?"  
>He wrapped his scarf around him. Flung on his coat.<p>

"I'm going out." The door slammed, he was gone.

John looked around the messy kitchen. Half-poached eggs sliding off the frying pan in the sink. Had Sherlock attempted to cook breakfast?

Shrugging, he grabbed a sandwich from the icebox. Holding it between his teeth, he glanced at his phone.

Normally Mary had replied by now. But his phone was silent.

He phoned her. It rang five times before she picked up.

"Yes?"

"Mary. It's John."

"Oh." Nervous laugh. "Hi, John."

"I texted you but you didn't answer? Are you tired from last night?"

"Er, yes. I suppose I am." She was shushing someone in the background.

"Is everything ok?"

"Yes, of course, why wouldn't it be?"

"It's just a question…"

"I'm fine, John. I will call you back later." There was a click without a goodbye.

"That's weird."

He heard the door unlocking downstairs. Probably Sherlock again.

"Did you forget something?"

"Bloody phone -" Sherlock pulled it off his desk and looked as if he might leave again. He stopped suddenly eyeing John critically. "What's wrong?"

"Hmm?"

"You're holding that phone as though it's a lifeline. Who was it, Lestrade?"

"No, it's - it's this woman I've been seeing…. Mary Morstan. She's a primary school teacher."

"Very nice, probably not someone I would like. Probably someone who wouldn't particularly enjoy my presence." He was using those off-putting remarks again.

"I wouldn't say that. Nice, yes, but these other conjectures…"

"What's happened, John?"

"She seemed… off…"

"Repeat the conversation."  
>John did so. Sherlock stopped him in the middle of several sentences, asking if there was emphasis.<p>

"Alright, you've made your observations. What's your conclusion?"

"She's cheating."

Sherlock hummed. "Can you really conjure that from one conversation?"

"She seemed strange day before yesterday. Rushed out as though she had an appointment."

"Ah. Anything else?"

"She seems skittish. Probably afraid I'll find out."

"Ah. See. There. You didn't need me for that then, did you? I'm going to see if Lestrade has our case. Watch Donovan twitch a little."

"Sherlock?"

"What, John?"

"She seemed scared. As though she was afraid to talk to me." He didn't like that analysis. She had no reason to be afraid, so it had to be something else.

"Well, it's obvious though isn't it? Have you seen her palms?"

"What? Er, no - not lately."

"Fingernails, anxiety. She's likely dug her hands into her palms making her shaky. She doesn't want anyone to notice so she takes the day off. Call the school see if she's taken the day off."

John stumbled to get the phonebook. He dialed the school. "Yes is Miss Morstan in? She called in. Well. Thank you."

Sherlock smirked. "I think it's easy dismissal to think she is cheating, John. I mean for Lestrade, it's blatant. But for you, not so much."

He did not tell John that he would rather it was dismissed as cheating. It would make it look as though he felt the same about everyone.

_Everyone will die if you don't jump._ He closed his eyes, shutting out the memory.

"Well, the only thing else probable is that she is being held against her will somehow," John said, concerned. "I better go call on her and see." He grabbed his coat.

There was only one other thing that came to mind. "Did you and Mary cause anything that might explain her mood changes?"

"Sherlock, Mary was - we were - just waiting."

"Oh. So. You'repurists." It was easier to mask his admiration for values with scorn.

"You've probably not gone through the process that you'll do anything for the one you love. Now are you coming with me or not?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm seeing Lestrade first about what he might have. Then you can see weather she's left her flat."

John stared after him. He could not recall Sherlock being so "manic". He would keep an eye on it. Perhaps he was noticing new quirks with Sherlock's long absence.


	8. Trouble With Computers

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right**  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, Lestrade, Dimmick  
><strong>Summary<strong>: There's a new case, and the Tube causes Sherlock to remember things he thought long deleted. That's the trouble with computers. You can't permanently delete anything.  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I'll make the necessary changes throughout the rest of the fic if there are any that need to be made. Henry is Sherlock's sister, a year older. There will be more about her later.

Anything you recognize I likely don't own it.

_He pressed ice to the rapidly swelling bruise. Stared at his face in the mirror. _

_His nose was too long, he likely was related to elephants. _

_"Oh. Zeph." It was his sister, Henrietta - but he called her Henri. Just like she had another nickname for him, a derivative of his middle name. She tugged on his shirtsleeve. _

_"Let me see." _

_"It's nasty, the skin's broken. I'll likely have a black eye." _

_"Dagrun's gang again?"_

_He shrugged, stuffing the cotton balls in his nose. _

_"Sherlock, you know they're jealous of you, right?"  
><em>

_"Jealous?"_

_She sat against the tub, confident in her theory. She was closer in age to Sherlock than Mycroft, and the two had been quite inseparable - that one in the family accused them of being twins. _

_This year was awkward for them, they were in separate classes, even though the boarding school was co-ed. _

_Of course, strings had to be pulled for them to see each other, but as long as they did, that's what was important. _

_"Yes. You're far more intellegent than them - you don't obsess over rubbish telly, in fact I don't recall you ever -"_

_"Only Saturday nights. Only thing worth watching. Most of the time."_

_She laughed a little - trying to make him forget about his mangled features that - if they hurt now, they would likely hurt more tomorrow. _

_"Let me see, Sherlock." She turned him up to the light - there was a rather nasty gash on his forehead. "I think you're going to need stitches." _

_"Aw, no - not again... hey, couldn't you do it?"_

_"Watching a video and reading and actually doing it are completely different." _

_"But you know how to right?"_

_"Well, yes, you'll have to rub iodine on it first and then I'm going to have to get my sewing kit."_

_"I can be your experiment." He seemed excited about this proposition._

_She turned at the doorway, rolling her eyes. "I doubt that, Sherlock Holmes."_

_She fetched the sewing kit and had to use the needle under the flame of her lighter - yes Henry was clever that way. "It disinfects it - don't want that getting infected." She nodded to the gash, liberally rubbed with iodine, but Sherlock was wincing. _

_"Alright, we don't have any anesthetic, so -"_

_"What about the brandy that I've got..."_

"Sherlock! If you get caught -"

_But he was already gone. "How much?"  
><em>

_"Less than a quarter cup. Now, this is still going to sting." She sat on the loo while Sherlock sat, facing her. _

_"Why don't you tell me about it?"  
><em>

_"About what?"_

_"The names they came up with, Sherlock. Sometimes it helps to talk instead of just bottling it up in your system, and no - don't tell me you just 'delete' it because I'm not fooled by it."  
><em>

_"They said I was an elephant."_

_"Excellent, you have a fantastic memory, and a rather beautiful nose." _

_That made him grin. _

_"What about them calling me Brainy and those other things."_

_"It's jealousy, but also - they want a rise out of you - clearly you're the superior one, because you think about want your reaction to feel like they're the one in control."_

_"You should be a psychiatrist."_

_"You know I want to be a doctor. Psychiatry just medicates, doesn't really treat the problem."_

_"See that's why you should though."_

_"All finished now, don't touch it, don't try and tear them open again. I think you should speak to Headmaster about this." _

_"He won't do anything - they'll all have a story about how I punched back."  
><em>

_"In self-defense obviously."_

_"Dagrun's just a bully, Sherlock. He's a scrawny little bully that doesn't like getting his hands dirty."_

"Sherlock?" Lestrade was looking at him oddly.

"Oh yes, she was on her way to work - likely a pharmacy tech job, paperwork has combination name and corresponding number, and she keeps her fingernails short - signs of latex but no scrubs. Not from St. Bart's or the A & E then.

Also the lab coat in her purse, likely one of those big black ones with the straps for carrying the paper and whatever she reads on the Tube." He peers around the corridor - it's been reconstructed since ... 2007. Almost like new if he didn't know better.

"Sherlock." It's Dimmick this time, bloody Dimmick. Peering at him a little strangely, with alot more respect, Sherlock can't help thinking he should jump off buildings more often..

"What, Dimmick?" he snaps, annoyed.

"There was no purse."

"No purse, just like the case without the suitcase. Killer must have taken it or it's where she was killed in the first place."

"The body's been moved then?" Lestrade. He can be so dense sometimes.

"Little blood, not enough for the trauma she's taken to her head." A pitied look briefly crosses his face as he glances down the rest of the body. "He's clearly a sadist, probably tortured her till she couldn't scream anymore then bashed her head in. Dumped her on the tracks to be rid of the evidence." The words are said scientifically. "Your looking for a tall man, heavy set, likely security for the Tube, he would have known when the next train was coming through. Now, Lestrade. Are you going to give me something that's _not_ a waste of my time?"

"Tha's it, you're not going to help us find him - use the Network, see if they saw anything, maybe find where she was killed originally."

He had thought of that, but he didn't _want _to use them.

"This doesn't particurlarly _interest _me," he stuffed his hands in his pockets and strode off, leaving the rest of the team quite bewildered.

Dimmick and Lestrade shrugged at each other. They would never understand why Sherlock could be so bloody temperamental.


	9. Blank Slate

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right

**Characters: **Sherlock, John - pre-slash or friendship at the moment  
><strong>Fandom: <strong>BBC Sherlock  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for drug use and aftermath

**Author's Note: **Thank you to everyone for your favorites and for your reviews. Sorry it's been a while since I updated. The muse hit me. There should be another chapter up tomorrow.

Sherlock walked with purpose to the street corner. The old man hadn't moved. But then, he never did. Even at night he slept there.

There was a nod between them. Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets, "Cold isn't it?"

"That it is, y'want…"

"The usual please."

"In a hurry are we?"

Sherlock stamped his feet in response. Leaned against the corner, business out of view of the CCTV. He slipped a handful of notes into the man's hand, and with a flick of his wrist took the product and slipped it into his pocket.

"And the other stuff you have."

"Other?" The old man raised his eyebrows.

"Yes." Sherlock replied testily. "Other." He held another roll of notes between two fingers and the man slapped the desired merchandise into his hand. That was slipped into his other pocket. "Thank you."

The old man smiled, showing his gold teeth. "Anything you like. Anytime you like." Sherlock paid double for his anonymity, and looked both ways before crossing. He didn't hail a cab for home, rather he stopped at the pharmacy a block away from Baker Street for some 30gauge needles.

They assumed he was insulin dependant by the way he asked for them. He never took the needles the sellers provided - the risk of getting a dirty one and contracting a horrid disease was too great.

He reached the flat and unlocked the door. John hadn't returned from seeing Mary. Good. He didn't want to be stopped this time, besides his brain was going off - telling him that his need to switch off was approaching.  
>He stuffed half of the first round of product in the skull, the rest in the compartment behind the microwave. The second product went into a compartment in his violin, and the needles went into a strange-looking urn on the second bookcase.<p>

Except he laid out what he needed. The blue scarf served as a good tourniquet. He watched the blood flow turn his fingertips pink as he rolled up his sleeve. The "new habit" he'd picked up. It cleared his mind completely, left him blank. Clear. He didn't want to think right now. He loaded up the needle, 15 cc's this time. 10 last time had done positively nothing. The need for the feeling of the first high he knew that it wouldn't be obtained. It was the blank feeling he wanted.

The need to forget.

He deleted her and deleted her. But she wouldn't leave as though she'd engrained herself onto his memory.

It took five minutes for his muscles to relax as his mind went blank. A comfortable nothingness. It had been instantaneous the first time. The wait was getting longer. More torturous. He would have to up the dose again…

The voices that had tortured him in Yemen came … and faded. _You're nothing. Worthless. Stupid. _

_He was floating. Lazily. No aim to go anywheres particular - just to float and _not _think. _

"You'll kill your brain cells that way."

He blinked, dully. The world was hazy and he couldn't discern who was trying to shake him awake.

_Go away. It's nice here. With just floating in space… _

"Sherlock, come now. How much did you take?" Henri's voice faded and it was only John talking to him, shaking him in concern.

_Aw John, why'd you have to ruin it? John reminding him. Chiding him. Annoying. Bringing him back down. _

He mumbled something aloud, distinctly annoyed.

"Sod it, Sherlock, you've - what did you take?"

"Heroin, what else?"

"Well you've taken. Goddamit, Sherlock - it's not enough for you to kill yourself in front of me. You've always got to outdo yourself. Come on." John puts Sherlock's arm over his shoulder.

"What for?"

"Getting you to bed. You should sleep it off."

"No."

"I'll call Lestrade. He can haul you off to jail for possession for all I care." John had his mobile in his hand, meaning to make clear his threat.

"No." His voice suddenly resembled a whine.

"No? Why don't you tell me how much you took and I might reconsider."

"You. Have no intenton ob doin any such. Thing." He forced the words out, slumping back into his chair. "Fifteen cc's. I'm fine." Of course he didn't _sound _fine.

"Sure, now yeah, but what happens when you take the full 31? I am not -" John's voice rose with emotion and he paused, lowering his tone. "I'm not loosing you again Sherlock. I almost killed myself with the boredom. You - don't make me loose you again." His voice started to crack around the edges with the emotion.

"Am. Not. Going. To do. That," It felt like he had to force every word out. Why was John making him talk?

"You can barely talk. Jesus, Sherlock. Come now, up to bed."

"Don't want to. Want sleep." He leaned back, closing his eyes. Meaning to do just that in the chair.

John sighed, exasperated. "Bed is a good place to sleep. You'll be stiff and sore if you don't. Come now, up you get." He put Sherlock's arm around his shoulders, meaning to properly get him up.

"Won't be. Carried to bed like a child." He could tell John's retort _you are a child _ was hanging at the edge of his tongue. Through the haze he wasn't quite sure.

"Well tough," John said, hauling him to his feet. Sherlock flopped on the floor next to his chair, legs had given way to the muscle relaxer, and they refused to move. Or because he was being stubborn. He wasn't sure he knew which.

"I'm going to have to call Lestrade because I certainly am not going to hoist you upstairs by myself. "

"Don't care."

"He'll have you arrested."

"So?" Sherlock shrugged carelessly, a blank stare still on his face.

"Fine," John huffed. "Stay there. And I'll call Mycroft to haul you off to one of his private rehabilitation facilities. We both don't want that. You hate that."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but tried to stand up.

"Here," John offered his arm, but Sherlock pulled back, stubborn.

"No. I'm fine."

"Alright then," John stood back, watching.

He barely made it to the stairs, though he made it up the first one - he would rather not crawl. Besides the room was - it was making him dizzy and sick.

"Sherlock?" John broke through the haze, but his vision didn't clear.

"Why is the room spinning?" He asked even though he knew the answer.

"You're high. You don't usually walk when you're in such a state.


	10. The Scars Remind You

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right**  
>Characters: <strong>Sherlock, John - pre-slash or friendship at the moment  
><strong>Fandom: <strong>BBC Sherlock  
><strong>Rating: <strong>T for drug use and aftermath**  
>Author's Note: My shout-out to the reviewers is at the bottom of the page :D I'm sorry it's short, I need space for the next chapter.<strong>  
>For your reviews. I'm hoping you keep it up, because I'd like you to tell me if I should kill Mary off or not.<br>She has been threatened, yes. That's true. But I want your opinion. Maybe the Yard does something right for once. Because John and Sherlock are a little busy at the moment. Also it's probably wise to read the companion piece **Needles and Thread **because I am trying to make them coincide.

* * *

><p>Sherlock stared at the stairway for a full minute before responding. "Oh." He wasn't sure he cared about the answer, or if he had forgotten what the answer was in the first place.<p>

"Do you want me to help you?" John was earnest, concerned.

His mind was no longer reasoning, deducing what John's motives could be for helping him. "Why do you ask when you will just do it anyway?"

"Because I wouldn't help you get up those stairs unless you want me to touch you. Detoxing however, you don't really have a choice."

"Fine."

"What?"

"John, must I ask?"

"Yes, because you're an arrogant sod and you should admit when you're wrong."

"Admitting that would seem my nerve synapses are malfunctioning due to the influence of the depressant. Would you. Help me."

John gritted his teeth, but helped Sherlock anyway.

He wasn't sure why he wanted to say thank you, but it was very out of character. Hence the hum that sounds like a grunt when John helps him up the stairs.

The next twelve hours are a little hazy. John feeding him soup, John bringing him water. Retching what little is in his stomach. He wakes to John dozing in the chair. He tries to study John as he sleeps, but the haze turns into a rather painful headache.

John shakes him awake. "How often Sherlock?"

Due to his pounding head, he answers more promptly than usual. "Every three days."

"Heroin now, too? Sherlock, I thought you were dead for three long terrible years. I didn't even get married because I thought - I tried to find the pieces of my life. But what do you care?"

"Had to save you. Didn't see any other option." He closes his eyes, trying to relieve his head.

"Here, drink another glass of water."

"Don't want it. Just want -"

"No, Sherlock. I won't have you killing yourself. I won't risk _finding _you've taken too much and there's nothing I can do. I can't let you do that Sherlock. I -"

Sherlock wasn't sure if he didn't hear what John said or if he'd cut him off. He stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. His heartbeat was pounding in his head, begging for a dose of both depressants and stimulants.

He grits his teeth against the urge to beg. He's still clear-headed enough not to, but it's slipping.

"I'll never touch -" his wheedling tone was rapidly cut off.

"No. Sherlock. Sleep. I'll be here if you need me, but I will _not _let you poison yourself."

He didn't retort _why would I need you _because the question was now irrelevant. He did need John - or he wouldn't have been "dead" in the first place. And he was exhausted, too exhausted for a retort.

"I'm sorry." John. Apologizing? When he was the addict in the first place? "I didn't realize that your life stopped too. Not just mine. I guess…when you came back I thought - that you'd been off having fun. I can see… that isn't the case."

The haze lifted for a moment. John had put him in his nightshirt. Which meant.

He'd seen the scars inflicted by electrocution burns. The sloppy needle marks from the sodium pentathol.

When they'd tortured him for information because they could. The information he didn't even _have _in the first place. Bloody Mycroft.

The pink scar from the blade.

The evidence of his broken wrist, even though he'd healed well - the doctor had been very good at the repair.

Somehow it didn't matter, and he was relieved that John hadn't needed to ask.

He mumbled a response. "I -

But he couldn't finish. He didn't know what to say. It was with that thought, that the exhaustion overtook him and he slept.

John patted his arm. He wasn't going to leave - not when Sherlock would wake in cold sweats and likely in delirious terror.

There was a part of John that wanted revenge on whoever had done this. But if they'd been the network, Sherlock would have already eliminated the problem. Which meant he'd killed.

As prickly as Sherlock could be, him killing another was difficult to imagine. John could relate to the fact that his flatemate had steeled himself against killing others instead of determining _what _killed them in the first place.

He shook his head, thinking about the new scars on Sherlock - what damage had really been done?

**princessangelwings: I had no idea that Euros weren't used in the UK. Apologies. I would love the help with Brit-picking, though I can't message you **

**ThisLooksLikeAJobForMe: Thank you for your continuous reviews **

**The Beth midget: Thank you so much, I'm hoping to continue it. And yes. Sherlock cooking breakfast. **


	11. Memory

**Title: **Get Your Epitaph Right

**Fandom: **Sherlock BBC

**Rating: T**

**Author's Note: I'm sorry for my absence. Stories come and go with me, one I may upload if I figure out how to WRITE it instead of ROLEPLAYING it.  
><strong>**The following is a memory while Sherlock is unconscious.**

_He was drifting again, but he felt weighted as though he were sinking, drowning… _

A loud rap on the door broke the candescence of the bouncing rubber ball as he caught it with a flick of his wrist.

The knock grew more persistent, but he walked to the door as though he were expecting a visitor - calm and collected.

"Yes?" He answered the door - he had gotten over the fact that he didn't like looking at people's faces, to the point that he could look up, angling his head so he didn't have to make eye contact.

_Muddied boots, Police slicker. It's raining. _

"What's the emergency?"

"We're sorry to tell you Mister Holmes…"

He's not trying to make eye contact, as most strangers do. Something he doesn't want to say. There's a growing panic… where's Becky when he needs her? The officer's face is dirty, not with mud. Soot. Fire.

Singed around the edges of his uniform. Likely explosion. The ground had shook earlier, but he knew better than to go out.

"But your sister..."

His chest tightens. "Becky. Please don't tell me formalities." His expression is not readable, despite the strong feeling that something has just happened, and there is nothing he could have done to prevent it. Taking all the facts leads to a rather terrible conclusion.

"You .. Yes, I'm sorry. There was no chance. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes. The Tube - they're evaluating now, but they think it was terrorism… "

He sits back against the floor, drawing his knees up and bending his head. He knows better than to cry in front of strangers, but his eyesight has gone blurry from the tear ducts opening themselves.

The officer enters the doorway, closing it against the rain. "Sir? Mr. Holmes?" He reaches out to touch his shoulder, but the young man flinches back, out of reflex.

"Don't touch me." He says in a very strange voice. A voice that doesn't really sound as though he's speaking.

"It's okay. I won't then. Is there someone else we can call for you? I know this must be a shock."

"You identified the DNA then? Not just her purse and ID?" He wanted to deny it. _It's not true, you're lying. _He knew better but his instincts of denial were kicking in.

"We're working on it but - the CCTV cameras caught - ." The seasoned officer wonders how the young man can have such detachment. "You were close, yes? You were the first on her emergency contact file."

"She was my sister, she was going to be a doctor." The young man replies, numbly. As though the evidence is obvious.

"Shall we do names? I'm first officer Greg Lestrade. You can call me by first name or last - either will do." He extended his hand, but Sherlock didn't take it. He didn't like people touching him, whatever their motives might be.

There was no real logically based reason for this, other than he didn't _like_ it.

"Because your wife barely dignifies your presence, indication that makes you suspicious of an affair. Which that deduction is most likely accurate. Probably with the neighbor or someone she is most likely to see every day. I would have to know her routine to be positively sure." He doesn't look at Lestrade, rather straight ahead at the wall, trying to resist the urge to kick it.

"I'm sorry?"

"You were twirling your ring as you said that, and you have a sentimental look on your face. The ring is plain, likely not replaced since you were married, which although it could indicate a lack of fitting in the budget, is more likely the state of your connection to your wife." His tone is cold, disguising the raw, foreign emotion that wells from his stomach and twists itself around him, like a boa constrictor with its prey.

"Do you have a first name or do you go by Mister Holmes?"

"Changing the subject, interesting. Most people tell me to piss off. It's Sherlock." He looks at the seasoned officer briefly, though he finds his hands more comforting to look at than his face.

"Sherlock, now is there someone that we can call for you?" Lestrade says his name without hesitation, as most do, trying it out - trying to pronounce it right. This made him slightly less tense.

"Isn't Mycroft on her chart?"

"Mycroft? From the Service?"

"Yes, he should have been phoned immediately. Likely is already aware by now anyway."

"The secondary emergency contact was blank. What's Mycroft's phone number?" He took out his mobile, unsure if the young man was delusional or telling the truth.

"I assure you, he is the eldest brother, though he seems to have been declaring a distance lately. Has always been an annoying sod. Four One Two Eight Five Five Two Two One Four Nine. And you better declare your rank and that you're with me and I gave you the number or he will have your badge."

The numbers were said robotically, as though they'd been programmed into a computer. Lestrade dialed quickly.

"Hello?"

"This is Officer Lestrade with the London Police. I'm with Sherlock Holmes, he says you're his brother?"

"Yes, this is Mycroft." The voice was untrusting at the other end. "Let me speak to Sherlock."

Lestrade held it out, and Mycroft called through the line. "Sherlock, are you alright?" He sounded strangely concerned.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and took the phone. "What?"

"Are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright I'm talking to you. Clearly alive." The young man's tone was annoyed, but the pain in it was evident.

"Becky's not coming back, Sherlock. I'm - I'm sorry."

"I know that. I'm not stupid, Mycroft."

"Alright. Well."

"There is no need for awkward conversation, Mycroft."

"I am enroute."

"I neither need coddling, comforting, or platitudes, Mycroft. I am a scientist. I see death all the time." Lestrade saw in his expression that his needs were the exact opposite, and he felt pity for the young man, who was glaring at him now.

Lestrade looked down at his hands, folded on his drawn up knees. He'd heard about people like this. The young man wasn't crazy, he likely had different wiring - which did not make him mental - it simply meant the emotion was disguised in what ever was going on his brain.

"I will be over shortly, anyway. Sherlock." There was a click as he rung off.

Sherlock clicked the phone shut then handed it back in a manner that said he clearly did not want to touch it again, and avoiding making contact with Lestrade's blackened fingertips.

"Did - you - touch - her?" He asked in a very strange voice, as though the emotion was directed into getting the words out and not on his face.

"I don't want you left with pictures, Sherlock. People can have nightmares about these things. You seem - I'm sorry to tell you young man, but I don't want to scar you."

"By that you mean there wasn't much left of her. Which means she was located close to the blast site. Which means, yes. You did touch her." He sighed, blankly staring ahead.

"It's alright. You can feel something that you won't see her again. You did care about her."

"Caring is a disadvantage." The reply is automatic.

"You're human. Humans care."

"Some would dispute that. Both statements actually."

This poor lost little boy. He desperately needed someone, anyone.

"You talked to your sister a lot didn't you?"

He shrugged. "At 19:00 on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays."

"That's good. You need someone else to talk to."

"No. I don't, She only phoned because she _pitied _me."

"You don't trust me yet, that's fine. Do you like detective work? You are clearly rather observant."

There's a slight smirk in spite of everything.

"I think 'like' is far too much of an emotionally driven word. Interest or a hobby is more how I would describe it."

There's a knock at the door. "Sherlock? Open the door, please."

He doesn't move. "Door isn't locked, you can let yourself in, Your Highness."

Mycroft opens the door. So this is the brother, with slightly blonde hair, completely different build.

"How's the diet coming, Mycroft?"

He huffs in response. "Come on, up you go. You're coming with me back to the mansion." He smiles in a way Lestrade doesn't quite understand.

"No."

"Yes, Sherlock. You should. Mummy's worried about you now, she's positively grief-stricken."

"I would guess she would be. You can at least tell her it was quick and she didn't suffer."

"Oh, you miserable sot, come along." Mycroft offered his hand. "Up you get."

"I'm a grown man, Mycroft, I can certainly get up on my own." The young man flashed a smirk then a glare at his brother.

"Well," Lestrade certainly wanted out of this situation. "Be in touch if you need anything." With that he was gone, but he didn't realize that the young man had lifted his pocket watch and wallet. He would have to return at some point. Sherlock hadn't finished his deductions yet, in fact he was considering the detective work Lestrade might offer.

"Oh I won't," Sherlock said, still glaring at Mycroft.

"Well. Yes."

"Alright fine, Sherlock. You can be a calloused sod like you've always been."

"I will."

"But I will check on you twice a day. And I will be picking you up for both the family memorial and the state funeral."

"You mean the state memorial because obviously there won't be many remains worth viewing except for the pathologists to comb over."

Mycroft shook his head. "I'll be back to check on you later, Sherlock."

He closed the door behind him. Nobody saw the young man with his nose too long and his cheekbones too prominent crumple to the floor by the door to his flat.

Nobody saw the tears that streamed down his cheeks, nobody heard the inaudible sobs that shook the too-skinny frame.

Mycroft found him about three hours later, on the couch, several needles on the floor around him, his eyes wide and unseeing.

"Oh for bloody sake, Sherlock!" He cursed as he dialed 999.

Sherlock never told anyone afterwards that was why he never believed in heaven.


End file.
